


Strangers in the Night

by alliaskofyou



Series: My Lost Special (to all of you) [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dancing, First Kiss, Fix-It, Frank Sinatra - Freeform, It hurts so good, M/M, Pain, Season/Series 03, Sherlock teaching John to dance, So much angst, i cried so much while writing this, not bbc canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-19 23:46:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11324223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alliaskofyou/pseuds/alliaskofyou
Summary: The contact accounts on Twitter inspired me to write this. If you aren't familiar with them, get on Twitter, you fool. Anyways, Sherlock confirmed that John first kissed him the night that he taught John how to dance. This is the love child of those tweets. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy! : ) xx(This has not been beta'd, so I apologize for any misspellings or grammatical errors.)





	Strangers in the Night

Sherlock stares at his suit, hanging ominously against his wardrobe. The late afternoon light bathes his room in a light glow, a glow he should be experiencing himself. If he was normal. If he desired for his best friend to marry a woman he loved or thinks he loves. If he wasn’t in love with John Watson.

 

All the possibilities of what the future could’ve been, all the missed chances, haunt Sherlock. He has to hope they haunt John, too. Not that he would want anything to haunt John, he’s haunted by the war enough, but he has to hope that John feels the same, or at least he once did. Because if so, then maybe it’s not too late. Maybe there’s stil-

 

His rumination halts as he hears the front door slam and John’s steady feet climbing up the steps. He purposely puts pressure on the worn wood that groans under any added weight, letting Sherlock know he’s arrived. It’s a warning to prepare, to don the mask Sherlock’s forced to wear, to not let John see how this union is splintering his heart, how the scar tissue, healed by John himself, is now bubbling with boiling blood that burns Sherlock’s core with every beat of his broken heart.

 

“Sherlock? Sorry, I’m late. The clinic ha- we were quite busy.” Sherlock can feel the tension seep through the walls and into his bones. There it settles and aches.

 

He pushes open his bedroom door and smiles tightly at John’s figure, silhouetted in a burning orange by the setting sun. “No matter.” He slides past John, avoiding the hand that reaches out, stills, and slides back into a formal rest at John’s side. Sherlock settles a record onto the turntable and positions the stylus, glancing back at John, his gaze softening at the sight.

 

John fidgets at the entrance to the flat, gazing around the room, out of place and assumedly unwelcome. Sherlock walks to the center of the room, outstretches his arm and smiles, a true smile, an attempt to show John all the love and adoration that is suffocating him in its magnitude. John sees Sherlock’s unguarded face and stills. Sherlock thinks this is it, the moment where John truly walks out, but John walks forward and takes Sherlock’s hand. His smile unsure and unsteady, but it’s enough for Sherlock as he guides him to toward him, flush against his chest.

 

Sinatra serenades them through the record player, guiding their steps as Sherlock attempts to show John how to lead, but John keeps stumbling on his own feet causing Sherlock to chuckle. John glares at Sherlock, but his scowl quickly transforms into a booming laugh, as he leans into Sherlock's chest. Sherlock closes his eyes, memorizing this feeling, of getting to hold John, even if it’s behind closed doors, hidden beneath dark night.

 

_Strangers in the night, exchanging glances_

_Wondering in the night; what were the chances?_

 

“Are you done laughing so we can continue?”

 

John rolls his eyes playfully and pulls himself upright.

 

“All your steps should be long. Your weight is taken on the heel, on the first step forward. Like this. And then it is taken to the ball of the foot. Like that.”

 

John mimics Sherlock’s movements, albeit less gracefully and Sherlock smiles approvingly.

 

“You should start a gradual rise to the toes at the end of the first beat. Continue that to the second and third beat of each bar. Lower to the normal position at the end of the third beat by lowering your heel - yes! Just like that.”

 

John looks up at him, his eyes bright and full of a light Sherlock hasn’t seen in so long.

 

_Something in your eyes was so inviting_

_Something in your smile was so exciting_

_Something in my heart told me I must have you_

 

Sherlock quickly averts his eyes and leads John back to the center of the floor. “Now let’s try the foot change. Do it with me.” Sherlock counts off the beats, his steady baritone paving their way across 221B. The sun has fully set, the only light comes from the streetlamps and the fireplace. The bright embers dance with them.

 

_Strangers in the night, two lonely people_

_We were strangers in the night_

 

 

John’s eyes catch his as they glide, flickering between Sherlock’s eyes and lips. Sherlock watches, his soul, if he believed in such a thing, feels as if it has leaked from his pores, floating above him, ghostlike. He feels weightless and heavy, luminescent and dim, full and empty, and he needs to know so he leans and leans and leans and only stops when John leans in as well.

 

_Up to the moment when we said our first hello,_

_little did we know Love was just a glance away,_

_a warm embracing dance away_

 

John pulls him closer, gripping his dressing gown in clenched fists. Their lips touch, barely, a brief press and then they collide, brilliantly.

 

_And ever since that night, we've been together_

_Lovers at first sight, in love forever_

 

It’s bruising and sloppy and needy but perfect. John’s hands slide up his ribs, his neck, and come to rest on his scalp, pulling his hair ever so slightly. Sherlock gasps into his mouth, letting John’s tongue invade and consume. He grips John’s hips tighter and moves his hands along his back, cupping his arse and pulling John flush against him. Sherlock swallows down a needy moan and begins to pull back for air, but John presses closer still, walking him to the wall, pushing him against it with a resounding thud. He grips the bottom of Sherlock’s shirt, playing with the hem. He bites on Sherlock’s bottom lip, nibbling ever so slightly to cause a fraction of discomfort and a satisfying prick of pleasure. A shocked gasp breaks them apart.

 

Mrs. Hudson stands in the doorway, a dish towel clutched tightly in one hand, the other covering her open mouth. John stumbles away from Sherlock, fixing his clothes and refusing to meet Sherlock’s pleading gaze.

 

“Mrs. Hudson, we just finished our lesson. I - I need to go. I can’t-”

 

He looks around the room, helpless and disoriented. He pushes past her and sprints down the stairs.

 

Mrs. Hudson takes a feeble step toward Sherlock, but he quickly reaches out a shaking hand, halting her movements.

 

“Please, Mrs. Hudson. Don’t.”

 

She nods and wrings the towel in her hands as she turns and walks back down the stairs, avoiding the creaking steps.

 

_It turned out so right for strangers in the night_

 

Sherlock lets loose a choked sob as he throws the record player to the floor, collapsing next to it in a heap. The fire dims and extinguishes unlike the love of those strangers in the night.

 

 


End file.
